A Matter of Faith
by a.lakewood
Summary: A little bit of Castiel's journey from the beginning of the Apocalypse to a couple years after Detroit.


**Title**: A Matter of Faith  
**Author**: alakewood  
**Warnings**: Spoilers for _The End._  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Word** **Count**: ~1900  
**Summary**: A little bit of Castiel's journey from the beginning of the Apocalypse to a couple years after Detroit.  
**Disclaimer**: As always, I own nothing.  
**A/N**: Written for the prompt Jizō at _tamingthemuse_, on LJ. I couldn't get the image of Cas as Jizō (tan trench instead of monk robes) out of my head. Therefore, you got this.

**oxoxo**

When they'd first taken Camp Chitaqua, Castiel had still possessed his grace. A small fraction of it, true; it had started fading long before the Apocalypse had swung into full force, diminished the longer he spent on the mortal plane – the more he began to love humanity itself. But he'd still felt the warm glow of Heavenly light within himself.

During the onset of the Croatoan outbreak, things changed. The longer he fought against the demons, at Dean's side, the less time he focused on the divine essence inside of him, the more he doubted it. His faith was waning.

A year after they'd lost Sam in Detroit, Cas had fallen asleep on the ride back from a minor scrimmage just outside Omaha – it was a worrisome thing, sleep. A _human_ need. He could feel that delicate thread that bound him to Heaven wearing thinner as the days passed, felt humanity beginning to creep through his veins.

But he hadn't been cast out of Heaven – hadn't fallen like Anna even though he was actively disobeying orders. It was a gradual, slow process, his grace disappearing like kerosene in a lamp. Then, when the last of the angels left earth – left the world to the ravages of demons, their evil and their virus – he'd felt the thread snap, the flame of the lamp flicker and fade, as his family abandoned him once and for all.

It left him feeling empty, a giant, gaping hole at the very core of his being. He finally understood why Dean behaved so carelessly, so recklessly, after Detroit. It was hard to focus on anything but that hole, the ache as its raw edges cleaved and collapsed. Made him hollow. Cas finally knew the same pain.

It wasn't long before he began searching for something to ease the ache, something new to believe in. A new faith. He didn't have to look far – his savior was also his leader. Cas emulated Dean and the more he learned about what it meant to be human – all the little things – the more he learned about God and the more he doubted Him. But with Dean, every new thing he learned about his friend and fearless commander, the stronger his faith in him became. Unwavering. He knew the war would be long and hard and bloody, and that they had many battles left to fight – not all of which would they win, nor would everyone survive – but he also knew Dean's determination and how successful he'd been thus far. It wouldn't be easy, but nothing worth fighting for ever was.

In the meantime, in the downtime between battles and raids and supply runs, Castiel allowed himself to experience humanity. Once he accepted it, other human needs and desires followed the first.

Dean had noticed the change almost immediately – it was hard for him not to, considering Castiel had become his second in command. But he didn't mention it, didn't question it until they'd barely survived an attack at Bobby's – Bobby hadn't been as lucky, but neither man could bring himself to think about the pyre burning outside. Instead, Dean focused his energy on digging the bullet out of Castiel's shoulder. The wound oozed blood down the back of Cas's arm onto the books on the dining room table.

"So, what? You're a card-carrying member of the human race now?

Cas hissed and reached for a dusty bottle that had been knocked onto its side, but otherwise unharmed, during the shoot out and took a long swig. "Something like that," he said through clenched teeth.

"I'm sorry," Dean said after a long moment. "This is my fault."

Cas knew Dean well enough to sense the greater, over-arching meaning behind his words. On the surface, it seemed as though he were apologizing for leading them into a trap, for Castiel's injury; but it was so much more than that to Dean. Cas's humanity and the all-out Apocalypse raging across the globe - "None of his was within your control," Cas told him. "You couldn't have stopped it."

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but Cas cut him off with a shake of his head, handing him the bottle.

"Apologies are unnecessary. We can't change the past. Can only hope to change the future."

Dean nodded and emptied the bottle.

Three stitches, two feet of gauze, and a few well-placed pieces of tape later, and they were ready to go. Cas pulled his shirt and jacket back on and made to follow after Dean, but he stopped and picked up the book he'd bled all over. _His_ his blood, not Jimmy's – his vessel's miniscule presence disappeared completely as soon as Cas had assimilated to his human nature.

After a brief stop at Bobby's liquor cabinet, Cas headed out to the Impala, book and alcohol in hand, and joined Dean in the front seat.

**oxo**

The book from Bobby's sat untouched beside Castiel's bed for a couple of weeks before he, drunk on absinthe after a particularly bloody battle in Denver during which they'd lost half of their team, finally cracked it open. It was a text on Buddhism, which was surprising only for the fact that Bobby Singer didn't exactly seem like the type to be searching for Nirvana. But Cas flipped through the pages with blood-stained edges, refreshed his memory on what little he knew of the beliefs and practices of the religion.

He had to close it and put it away after reading the section on Jizō, one of the more popular bodhisattvas in Japan. It brought back memories of the time he'd spent in Hell searching for Dean. If he hadn't gotten to him as soon as he had, Dean's soul would've been lost forever – it was too close of a call. He was so broken...

From his window, Castiel could see Dean across the central yard of the compound, a beer in hand, setting rocks atop the fresh graves of their fallen as the only thing marking the presence of the the dead. Cas closed the curtains and turned out his light, let alcohol and bone-deep weariness drag him off to sleep.

And, for the first time, his dream was vivid, more like a waking hallucination than anything else. He found himself among the fires of Hell, again searching for Dean – the man responsible for starting the Apocalypse. He found him along the banks of a river of fire, stacking rocks in little piles all along the river's edge. Dean didn't notice him, focused solely on transferring the stones from one place to another. Cas edged his way around a large black boulder, minding the demonic guards posted not far away. "Dean," he ventured in a harsh whisper.

Dean's gaze flicked up briefly, but he kept his head down, kept his feet moving, kept moving stones from here to there.

Cas glanced up towards the guards again but they weren't watching, so he walked straight over to Dean, reached out his right hand and gripped Dean's left shoulder. There was a bright flash of light, the rock Dean had been holding dropping to the dust and rolling away, then Cas's eyes readjusted and refocused two and a half feet lower.

Dean, just a child, looked up at Castiel with a dirt-streaked face. "I can't go yet. I have to finish this." He stooped to pick up his rock.

Cas saw the demon guards turning his way, reached for Dean as he opened his coat and pulled him near. "Stay close," Cas told him. "I can protect you." Then Castiel ushered him away from the river bank with the guards none the wiser.

Under Cas's coat, Dean wasn't much more than ether, weightless and invisible, and Cas made his way back through Hell's bowels and found himself in a familiar room. This was the place in which he had _really_ found Dean – Alastair's torture chamber. And there he was, blade in hand, leaning over somebody's soul, curiosity in the set of his wide eyes and wrinkled forehead as he sliced and peeled. The image flickered and blurred, cut out like a bad TV signal, and Castiel pressed on with Dean's soul tucked safely beneath the folds of his trench coat.

It was a long trip across treacherous terrain that hid the kinds of monsters the Winchesters had never faced, but Cas finally made it out, finally completed his mission, and successfully returned Dean's soul to his body. Again, a bright flash of light followed by a sonic boom and the smell of charred pine.

Castiel woke with a start fearing that reality had somehow become intertwined with his dream, but his cabin wasn't ablaze and he couldn't have been asleep for long because, outside his window, Dean was still across the compound at their makeshift graveyard. He reached for the dark-glassed, half-empty bottle of absinthe off his nightstand and headed outside.

Dean stilled, glancing over his shoulder inconspicuously, at Cas's silent approach, his shoulders relaxing only when he recognized the former angel. He switched his beer bottle from one hand to the other, the ring on his finger clinking against the glass.

Cas held out his bottle. "Could probably use something a little harder, hm?"

"Thanks," Dean said, taking the bottle and quick drink, wincing at the overpowering anise flavor. He coughed and took another drink.

When they'd first met, it was Castiel's duty to guide Dean along a path of righteousness towards his destiny. Then they'd learned of Heaven's true plan for Dean, what his role was and what it entailed, and Dean's spirit had again become broken at the future Zachariah had painted. Dean couldn't kill his brother. Cas had been there every step of the way, helping where he could when he realized that Heaven was _wrong_ - and he'd paid the ultimate price for his disobedience. Worse than being forced back to Heaven against his will, he was left behind completely and lost his grace. If anybody understood the turn his existence had taken, it was Dean. "Everything that we've been through, all that's happened...Has it been worth it?"

Dean handed the absinthe bottle back to Cas. "Days like today are hard, make me wonder if we'll win, but we don't have a choice. We can't fail. The lives that have been lost, today and every day up until now, what happened to you...it hasn't been for nothing."

Cas took a long pull from the bottle and stared out into the blackness beyond the razor-wired fence. "What do you think will happen to Sam?"

Dean shrugged, let his gaze follow Cas's into the dark. "I haven't come this far to..."

"We'll save him, Dean."

"I wish I could be as sure as you."

"I have faith in you. And, like you said, we haven't come this far to fail."

There could be no exceptions, there was no other way for it all to end except for them to be victorious. They'd survive, save Sam, and end the Apocalypse. Didn't matter what Heaven said, what it was they believed to be destiny. They didn't know Dean Winchester or what he was capable of when he really put his mind to it. Heaven was wrong.


End file.
